


The Letter From Boston

by HunterPeverell



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Letters, Loneliness, M/M, Pre-Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 07:38:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterPeverell/pseuds/HunterPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve was alone on Christmas when he got the letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter From Boston

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this: http://maybe-i-do-not-want-heaven.tumblr.com/post/135702750020/okay-but-imagine-your-otp
> 
> I don't own anything at all.
> 
> This is un-betaed. If you find something, please let me know!

Steve sat alone in his new apartment, staring at the little Christmas tree squatting across from him. He had decorated it halfheartedly with a few limp strands of tinsel and cracked bobbles. He did not have a sofa, only an overstuffed chair that used to belong to his mother. The worn rug trailed threads across the floor, and the walls were pitifully bare.

But it was his home now. He had gotten away from Brock and Peirce.

That job had been the worst decision of his life, and he regretted even considering it. Natasha and Sam had warned him, but he had not listened and now here he was, in a lonely apartment a thousand miles away from LA in the frigid New York winter with hardly any warm clothing. He curled deeper into the fuzzy blanket Natasha had shoved into his arms before he had left and thanked her mentally for the gift.

There was a rickety table about three feet away from him. It had only his mail sitting on it, and Steve knew he should probably get some food in him. He needed to take his vitamins as well, but he lacked all motivation this evening.

Still he struggled to his feet, wincing at the cold floor that he could feel even through his wool socks. He crossed five feet to the kitchen area where the dented mini-fridge sat against the wall. He opened it, and was greeted with a couple of cold leftovers Sam had sent with him. He glanced over at his microwave, which heated things up to a lukewarm temperature at best, and grimaced.

He might as well eat it cold. It would just add to his already miserable evening. He grabbed one of the Tupperware containers and closed the fridge, heading to the table and its single chair.

As he ate the meal—slightly frozen beans and peppers—he went over his mail. Most of it was junk for the previous owner, some of it was junk for him. One letter caught his eye; it was a red envelope, the flap pasted down with a sticker of a polar bear on a sled. Steve’s brow furrowed, and he looked at the address, sure that it had been given to him on accident.

It was his address. Well, his new address. Now he was really confused. Who would be writing to him? Only Natasha and Sam knew where he had gone, and they would just call. They _had_ called earlier, each wishing him a merry Christmas. Slowly he opened it, carefully prying the sticker off, and looked inside.

There was a single card inside, one that he could buy in any store. It had a Christmas tree drawn in soft pastel colors, a heap of presents piled underneath it and little lights made of some faux gems. “Merry Christmas” was scrawled across it in fancy lettering.

Steve flipped it open and read:

  
_Hey,_

_I used to live in your apartment. I’m drunk in Boston, and it’s the only address I know._

_If you’re living in that crappy place, you probably don’t have anyone to celebrate with. If you want, give me a call. I’ve written my number below. I know things probably look crappy right now, but it doesn’t need to be, which sounds corny as hell but, hey, I’m drunk._

_Happy Holidays_

_JB_   


Steve glanced down at the phone number written below the message and bit his lip. While he wasn’t one to call random strangers, he didn’t want to bother Sam and Natasha further on Christmas Eve, not when they were with their own families.

He pulled out his crappy little flip phone and dialed the number.

“Hello?” A voice said. It was a male’s voice, which Steve had guessed from the handwriting. It was deep and warm and Steve liked it instantly.

“Hi,” Steve said, trying to sound as cool as the man on the phone and probably failing. “I just got your letter—I’m, uh, living in your old apartment.”

“Oh hey,” the voice said. “I’m Bucky.”

“Steve.”

“Well Steve, Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiled. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

Steve and Bucky talked for hours that evening, and Steve felt a tiny bit more hopeful by the end of it.


End file.
